The Drugs Bust
by Catherss
Summary: -No romance of any sort :P- A story how Lestrade helped Sherlock get off drugs, and little slips if Sherlock as a child. T for drugs and little violence.
1. Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade lived alone. His wife, who he now… _disliked_, has been sleeping with a P.E teacher from the local primary school. His flat seemed empty without her. _Don't think about that! Concentrate on the road! _He thought bitterly. His phone buzzed. Text. Greg didn't really get texts anymore. Not after his wife… _No! Don't think about that!_ He fished around in his jacket, keeping his eyes on the road, and found it. He glanced down. It wasn't a number he recognised.

_**It was the biker.**_

_**-S**_

The bi-…?

The biker! It fit in! His most recent case, a quadruple murder in east London, was expected to take at least a week to solve, if not more. Greg grinned like an idiot. That was one down! He might get a bit of a day off tomorrow. That would be nice. He put his phone back into his pocket.

He pulled up in the reserved parking space outside his home, and climbed the stairs to his flat. When he got to it, he dug in his pocket for his keys. He couldn't find them. Greg frowned. But then he looked down to the keyhole, and pushed the door open. His frown deepened. As he slowly pushed the door open, he noticed a clanking against the door. His keys! How did… how…

Greg slowly pushed the door open. He carefully padded into the living room, his heart painfully loud. He crouched down and looked around. Nothing. Nothing out of place when he left in the morning. He straightened up. _But what about the kitchen? _He slowly moved into his kitchen, his heart thumping even louder. _Nothing_! Only one room left in the flat…his bedroom. What sort of an intruder went into the guys' _bed_room? He crouched down, and remembered the gun in a kitchen drawer. Before leaving the kitchen, he opened the drawer to the left of the hob. Papers, loose change, but nicotine patches where missing, but Greg didn't really notice. His gun, which he 'borrowed' from a crime scene. He held the gun in front of him, his arms straight. He moved into his messy bedroom. _Nothing_! He dumped the gun back on his bed and turned to go back into the living room. He sat down, and turned on the T.V. Man U Vs Liverpool. Should be good.

Nothing else happened that night. He got dinner. He went to bed. And though he knew there was no one in his flat, that didn't stop him from barricading his bedroom door.

As Greg ate his breakfast the next day, he only just started to ponder the text. –S it had said. Sean? Sam? Sophie? He shook his head. It was probably just a guilty witness, trying to make up for holding the information in.

Once he got to work at New Scotland Yard, a new case had been put in his inbox. Greg rubbed his eyes with his wrist. He took the case file, and read it through. So much for a day off. The inspector gathered up a team to go with him on the case. Anderson's forensics team…. and Donovan's police crew. That'll do.

'Anderson!'

'Yes boss?'

'Get a forensics team together, and get Donovan to get a police team together.'

'Yes boss. What case are we on?'

'The new case, the one with the suicide.'

'Okay.' Anderson turned and headed to Donovan's office.

They left in half an hour and when they arrived, Donovan got tape set up and Lestrade, Anderson and his team went into the house where the body was found. The poor man was hanging from the banister on the staircase, and was hanging down into the hallway, with a tipped over chair close to the guys feet. Anderson's team worked quickly, taking samples of the man's skin, for DNA and raiding the man's pockets for ID. Greg decided to take the samples and ID out of the hall and into the tent that had been set up. It was beginning to get a little darker now, after searching the man and his house for hours, and Lestrade had to call it a day, to return tomorrow. He packed up the evidence, practically leapt into the car to get back to the office, and drove back to the Yard. Once he got there, with the police cars containing Andersons' team (Donovan's will stay the night, guarding, taking shifts) behind him, he stuck the plastic bags used for holding evidence into his outbox where the guys in Barts would analyse it.

The next day, once he pulled up his car into the crime scene, he got out of his car. Andersons' team where just about to move in when he heard Anderson him self call out.

'What do you think you're DOING!'

Greg looked up in surprise. He'd never heard of Anderson shout like that. Seconds later, Grey saw a ghost like figure sprint out of the house, his coat flapping behind him. Anderson was already running out, chasing the man, but he was faster and was soon bounding around the corner.

'DANMIT! That idiots' probably contaminated the area!'

Anderson gave a howl of rage, stopping dead.

'Calm DOWN, Anderson!'

'But we'll probably have defective evidence now!'

Anderson gave a growl of rage, and stomped back. And just when Anderson had disappeared back into the house, he felt his phone buzz.

_**It wasn't a suicide. The man's called Arthur Milton, and his brother shoved him down the stairs. James Milton, brother, didn't know what to do and made it look like a suicide. Take a look under his hat.**_

_**-S**_

Greg stared at the text. _Could be a fraud. There's probably noting under the guys hat! _He thought. Regardless, he texted him back.

_**Who are you?**_

While waiting for a reply from the number, Greg made his way into the house.

'Anderson, take of the man's hat.'

'Er… Why?'

'Just… just do this for me.'

Anderson frowned, but walked up the stairs and when he reached the rope where the man was suspended from, he leaned down and tugged at 'Arthur Milton's' hat. It wouldn't peel away from his head. Anderson, who was looking a bit paler, tugged with a bit more force. A few flakes of dried blood fell out of the man's had that had fallen off the mans scalp, where dried blood had gathered under the woollen hat. Anderson, for the first time, looked a bit sick, but he still managed a feeble curse.

'But… but how did you know, sir?' one of Andersons' lower ranking men piped up, whose name Greg seemed to remember as Brenton. Greg didn't know an answer to this.

'The man's name is Arthur Milton. Research him. Find out about his family. They'll need to be informed.' replied Lestrade, as a sort of answer.

'But sir…' The man started

'Brenton.'. The man opened his mouth, when Lestrade gave him a look.

He then closed it and bustled off to one of his colleagues in the crew. Lestrade was about to make a start to go out, when he felt his phone buzz.

_**I'm no-one who you'll need to know.**_

_**-S**_

Lestrade felt annoyed at this. It was his duty to know things. It was his job to know things and figure out the answer. So he replied.

_**Okay then. How did you know about the man's death?**_

Feeling like this would catch the man out if this was a witness, he went out of the building, and he felt his phone buzz. _Quick._ He thought with satisfaction.

_**I'd advise firing the man who I believe is called 'Anderson', by the way.**_

_**-S**_

Lestrade was shocked. He'd never considered firing Anderson.

_**Why?**_

He sent back. Even quicker this time, 'S' replied.

_**He's an idiot. **_

_**-S**_

Anderson wasn't an idiot. Well, as far as Lestrade was concerned anyway. A little annoying at times, yes, but not stupid.

**_Who _are_ you?_**

This time, the man didn't reply for a while longer. _Good_! Thought Lestrade. 'S' was thinking about it. It was beginning to get dark before he's replied. An hour later, in fact.

_**I'll leave you to your deductions, Inspector Lestrade.**_

_**-S**_

At this, if the man was in the room Lestrade probably would've punched him. But, as Lestrade lay in bed that night he really did think about it. And then somehow it linked. The man who was running away from the crime scene, the texts. Greg grinned into his pillow.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

No, no, no! They where doing it all WRONG! How could the 'best' detectives in London not figure this one out! Sherlock, who was currently sitting curled up upright with his chin on his knees on the roof of the hotel opposite the Yard, was watching the Detective Inspector through his office window. He seemed intelligent enough. Well, stupid, but not too stupid anyway. Sherlock unravelled himself and stood up, his coat fluttering in the wind.

One confused receptionist and one insulted guest later, Sherlock made his way off the roof and out of the hotel. Sherlock whistled a tune that sounded worryingly like Chopin's Funeral March. A young woman, not more than 25, came up to Sherlock. She wore a faded blue hoody and jeans.

'Got any change, sir?'

'For what?' Sherlock replied.

'For a cup of tea, of course!'

Sherlock then slipped the woman a piece of paper. She opened it and nodded, then made her way over to the Yard, sliding inside. Sherlock leaned against the lamp-post, and waited. But then he felt his phone buzz.

_**You know, Sherlock, I could actually fund you a flat. After all, I do apparently run the government. **_

_**MH **_

Sherlock gripped the phone a little tighter then shoved it roughly back into his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sherlock was reading under a tree; he did not notice the other child staring at him.**_

'_**I hear that you know everythin' about everyone!'**_

_**Sherlock looked up. The child was a year above him: the boy was in year 5. His clothes where messy, with the threads fraying at the wrist of the sleeve, the term was only 3 weeks old, probably hand-me-downs. They where too big for him. He had a bruise on his cheek, it was too small to be a punch, and it was red around it. It was fresh, only no fights or anything of the sort had happened in the last three days. It was at home, then. The child's neck was tense; the rest of his body was too, only it was hidden by his clothes. He was spoiling for a fight.**_

_**Conclusion: The boy suffered from child abuse: his parents where poor and did not care about him. He had been probably bullied at a previous school, he would be delighted to find someone whom he could be counted as 'above'. **_

'_**Then what you have heard is untrue.'**_

_**The boy didn't move. He was still tense. Sherlock went back to his book.**_

'_**Ha! I don' think so!'**_

_**Sherlock glanced at him again.**_

'_**Listen to me!'**_

_**Sherlock didn't look up.**_

_**The boy's friend in the same year ambled by: and stood by his friend, interested to hear where this was going.**_

'_**Whassup, Mike?'**_

'_**This little freak isn't listening to me!'**_

_**Sherlock had stopped reading, his eyes staying still on the page. But the boys where too stupid to notice, as ever. **_

'_**Well, we'll have to do something about that.'**_

_**The boys took a step closer. Sherlock held his breath. He couldn't let himself be beaten up… again. The bruises had only just faded from his last attack.**_

'_**Wait!' Sherlock burst out. The boys raised their eyebrows. 'If you don't hurt me,' at this the boys sniggered, 'I'll tell you about Mike!'**_

_**The boys glanced at each other: this would be fun. **_

'_**Okay then. Tell me about myself.'**_

_**Sherlock took a deep breath.**_

'_**Your clothes are old: the cloth's thread has frayed. So they're hand-me-downs or from last year. You could have done that this year, but we're three weeks in. You wouldn't have done that already. For a start, you would be told off by your parents. That's your mum and dad,' Sherlock added with raised eyebrows, 'You've got a bruise on your cheek, but there haven't been any fights in the last three days, and the bruise is resent. Last 24 hours at the most: so your mum and dad don't just tell you off: your father, which is more likely, beats you with something: probably a belt, the marks are the right size. The fact that you've got either hand-me-downs or are having to wear last years uniform means that your parents aren't poor, but don't have as much money to spend as they like. And that you get beaten and you've not got new uniform despite the fact that it's clearly in need or repair or a new replacement means that they don't really care about you.' **_

_**Sherlock sat, panting slightly, as Mike stood staring, transfixed. His friend glanced at Mike with a worried look.**_

'_**You alright, mate?'**_

'_**How did you…? You… freak! You've been spying on me!' The boy aimed a kick at Sherlock, which he quickly dodged by rolling over. Sherlock's finger, witch had been keeping his page on his book, slipped out. Sherlock sighed. Sherlock leapt up and began to run, forgetting his book, Mike and his friend hot at his heels. **_

'_**You can't out run us, freak!' called one of the boys.**_

'_**We'll see about that' Sherlock muttered under his breath.**_

_**They where now running through the play-ground. Other children where running, skipping, chatting but none, oddly enough, fearing for their life. The staff who where on duty, watching over the kids with a cup of coffee in hand, didn't notice anything wrong with a eight year old child running full pelt with two older kids behind him. Of course they wouldn't. They where stupid like the rest of them. **_

_**Sherlock ran on, barely out of breath, but the other boys where beginning to slow a little. They had now reached the bottom of the L shaped building. Sherlock spotted a dustbin, and leapt onto it and then onto the roof. The boys slowed just in time, panting heavily.**_

'_**How did he get up there?' asked Mike through big breaths. The other boy shrugged.**_

_**Sherlock turned, his back facing the boys, and grinned to himself. He'd be told off by his mother later, but it was worth it for outrunning two older boys. **_

_**But then the whistle, making everyone stop, rang out through the playground. **_

'_**SHERLOCK HOLMES! GET DOWN HERE NOW!'**_

_**Sherlock wasn't grinning anymore.**_

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

I was finishing off a bacon butty when I heard the whistling. The tune summoning the closest Irregular to Mister Holmes. I stuffed the rest of the butty in her mouth and walked over to where the whistling was coming from. Then I spotted Mister Holmes walking out of some hotel, and strode towards him.

'Get any change, sir?'

'For what?'

'For a cup of tea, of course!

He slipped me a piece of paper. On it, was written,

_**Get to Lestrade. I need his flat keys. Office third on the left. Grey hair, brown jacket. His keys have a dark blue key ring on. £50. **_

I held back a grin, and nodded. I walked over to the New Scotland Yard. It's a police place, wasn't it? I didn't know. I slipped inside. It was a nice place, with people busying about. No-one gave me a second glance. I was just a witness, or a victim to them. I counted one door, two doors, three doors. I looked behind my shoulder, and slipped inside. More people, no more than the first glance. Then I heard someone calling.

'Anderson!' A man called out. Grey hair… brown jacket! This was my man.

'Yes boss?' A man replied.

'Get a forensics team together, and get Donovan to get a police team together.'

'Yes boss. What case are we on?'

'The new case, the one with the suicide.'

'Okay.' The man turned and headed off. He was no longer important to me.

Lestrade turned back to sit at his desk. He started to pull out papers and eventually a key with three key rings on… a red one, a photo one and a dark blue one. Five minuets later, after rifling through a file, he got up and made his way to the door. This was my chance. He was heading straight towards it… good. As he was about halfway to the exit, I stood in front of him, when he turned his head to look. He rammed into me, tipping me over.

'Sorry! Sorry!' I said, putting on my best worried my-husbands-just-been-shot voice.

'What? Oh, no worries.' He held out a hand for me to help pick myself up with. I clasped my left hand in his right and pulled myself up. I pretended to over balance and staggered forward, almost ramming into his right side. As I went past, my hand shot into his pocket. I pulled out the keys and quickly hid them in my jeans pockets.

'Thanks. Sorry again, I should've been looking where I was going!' I said.

'Oh, no, it was my fault.' He smiled.

'Bye.' I smiled at him.

'Bye.' He continued on to the exit.

I hung about, waiting for Anderson and his group to leave. When they did, I tagged along the back. I went back down the corridor and out of the exit. Mister Holmes was leaning against a lamp-post. When I came out and he saw me, I asked him:

'Any change, sir?' I was almost next to him now.

'Don't mind if I do!' He held his hand out just in front of him. In his palm was a £50 note. I took the note, and gave him the keys. He grinned at me, and walked off down the road. Just as before he turned a corner, I noticed a slight swag in his step.


	3. Chapter 3

-=|AUTHERS NOTE|=-

Sorry, I meant to post this last night but there was some error so I couldn't.

Thanks to those who have read my story so far: I wuv you! Also, a very special thanks to Daniel Blythe for reading my story at my school

I have every intention to continue this story, but homework and other stuff and homework have to be done first. Ridiculous!

-=|BACK TO THE STORY!|=-

The girl slipped Sherlock the keys. He grinned at her, and began to walk

down the pavement. He turned a corner onto a slightly busily road, and hailed a cab. Sherlock got in.

'Where to?' the cabbie asked. Sherlock told him, and the cabbie set off. About five minuets later, Sherlock felt his phone buzz.

_**Ignoring me won't make me shut up me up, brother.**_

_**MH**_

Sherlock laughed sarcastically. It would eventually. The cab slowed to a halt.

'Fifteen quid fifty please.' Sherlock handed him the money and jumped out. He was outside Lestrades' block of flats. It looked a bit run down: the walls had something green under the windows and the concrete was a darker colour closer to the bottom. Sherlock went into the building, and up to Lestrades floor. Sherlock fished around in his coat pocket and pulled out the keys, and unlocked the door. He went in. It was messy, with the occasional case-file scattered on the sofa, coffee table and dining table. He picked one up, and it had the date of three days ago. It wasn't solved yet. Sherlock read it through. Bit transparent, it was obviously the biker. Sherlock put the case file down exactly where it had been beforehand, and made his way into the kitchen. Messy, like the living room, but with dirty cups of coffee and plates scattered around. Sherlock started to rummage in the draws, looking for a mobile number. It would probably be in a draw with bills in, but maybe not. He found a draw with papers, nicotine patches and a gun. Sherlock carefully removed the gun and the nicotine patches, and pulled out the papers. Gas bills, rent bills… yes! Contract bills! Sherlock skimmed the text… and found the number. Sherlock memorized it, and carefully started to replace everything he was about to put the nicotine patches back in when he decided against it. It was beginning to be impossible to continue smoking in London, and maybe the nicotine in the patches would be a good enough substitute for the cigarettes. He closed put the gun back, and closed the draw. He then swiftly made his was out of the flat. Sherlock stuffed the keys back into the keyhole, and closed the door behind him. Sherlock went back down the stairs and out of the flats. He strolled down the pavement. Then his phone buzzed.

_**I don't actually have any meetings today, and I'm a little bored.**_

_**MH**_

Mycroft and no meetings? Three words that can't be in the same sentence. Not possible. There would be some Colombian president or something that Mycroft would be having a meeting with. Just as Sherlock was about to put his phone into his pocket, his phone buzzed again.

_**Come on, Shirley! I have my eye on a nice place in central London that I could reserve for you.**_

_**MH**_

Just because Sherlock had just been evicted from his flat (for repeatedly putting animal and human parts the sink and bath) didn't mean he necessarily needed a new one. Sherlock was perfectly happy doing what he was at the moment: not sleeping at all. He could deal with that for a bit, anyway.

As Sherlock had been lost in his thoughts, mainly filled with general spite toward his brother, it had been an hour after Sherlock had broke into the flat. But then Sherlock was bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. He then decided to text Lestrade.

_**It was the biker.**_

_**-S**_

Let him ponder _that_! But then Sherlock was bored again. Bored. Bored. Bored.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

Mummy would _not_ be happy. Sherlock had managed to get himself chucked of his flat out _again_. And, after the third time and a talk from Mycroft he had still put dead body parts and _god_ knows what else in the bath. Mycroft, though in the middle of a particularly boring meeting with the MPs from Scotland and North England, Mycroft decided to text Sherlock.

_**You know, Sherlock, I could actually fund you a flat. After all, I do apparently run the government. **_

_**MH **_

Sherlock wouldn't reply, but it was fun enough just to send the text.

After the meeting, Mycroft texted Sherlock again.

_**Ignoring me won't make me shut up me up, brother.**_

_**MH**_

Mycroft made his way back to his office. His office was a nice place, in his opinion. He looked at his schedule. He raised his eyebrows. No more meetings today! This would be a brilliant chance to get some paperwork done and annoy his dear little brother. He wondered what Sherlock was doing right now. Probably spying on someone, or a crime scene, just one of his many little habits. Mycroft took some of the papers in the inbox and read through them. Then he texted Sherlock again.

_**I don't actually have any meetings today, and I'm a little bored.**_

_**MH**_

And then again.

_**Come on, Shirley! I have my eye on a nice place in central London that I could reserve for you.**_

_**MH**_

Mycroft really did have a place: It's on Chaltist Street, 63 Flat 04. It was a decent size, and they where okay about pets. Mycroft presumed it extended to sociopaths.

Mycroft then texted the man who he had following Sherlock. Mycroft worried out of his mind sometimes, especially now Sherlock had been kicked out his flat. Mycroft had nothing to bug, so a… supervisor… was needed.

_**Where is he?**_

_**MH**_

Mycroft left the phone on his desk and sat back, but quickly the man replied.

_**Outside a flat. He just went in, and then out again. He's walking down the road now.**_

_**AD**_

Mycroft put his phone back into his pocket. And then suddenly remembered:

_**Sherlock had been 6, Mycroft 13. One of the older kids had beaten up Sherlock, and Sherlock, being 6, thought that the best idea was to run out of school. Sherlock had been missing for two days, and mother (and to some extent, father) was sick with fear and worry. They had made call after call to all the local police to search out: it had been on the BBC news. But then that day, they received a call from the police… in the north east. Nearly 400 miles from their home. He had been found in a supermarket, trying to steal some bread from a shelf. The security had found him, and he had promptly burst into tears. They had asked his name… and made up the name Captain Jonathon Johonas. The security had laughed, making matters worse. They took him to the staff room and then called the police. Sherlock had been brought back home, and after many tears from him and mother he went up to his room and didn't speak for a week. **_

-=|AUTHERS NOTE (AGAIN)|=-

Sorry if this chapter drags on a bit, I had a bit of a writers block :(

More of an adventure next chapter, which should be coming tomorrow or day after (hallelujah!). Please be patent.


	4. Chapter 4

-=|AUTHER'S NOTE|=-

Okay, first off, sorry about the lack of chapters. Also, I'm not a doctor. Not even close. I barley know what a concussion is. I also don't really know how hospitals work, only what I've seen on TV. So don't kill me for inaccuracy! I apologise again for the general lack of chapters. I just haven't really got round to writing.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

Sherlock was thinking. Obviously, he did this more often than not. He was thinking about the case. The one with the murder. Well, suicide, but they didn't know that.

'What do you think you're DOING!'

Sherlock turned round. A man of about 30 ran up to Sherlock, waving his arms like a windmill. Sherlock leapt up, and ran out of the building. The man ran after him, but he couldn't keep up.

'DANMIT! That idiots' probably contaminated the area!'

Ha! More than they had? The man stopped, and Lestrade took hold of the man by the shoulders.

'Calm DOWN, Anderson!'

Ah, so Anderson was his name. Idiot. Sherlock could tell in his eyes. Sherlock bounded round the corner and whipped out his phone, and texted Lestrade. Then, as Sherlock was sliding down the concrete wall under the bridge where the homeless stayed, Lestrade texted him back.

_**Who are you?**_

Ha! Idiot! He thinks Sherlock was going to tell him? So Sherlock texted back, with some jealous glares from the others, and one of them piped up.

'Hay, where'd you get that from?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Just because I'm homeless doesn't mean I can't afford phones!' The man was about to open his mouth to reply when one of Sherlock's Irregulars stood over the man.

'Hay, Mister Holmes doesn't need to steal!'

_**I'm no-one who you'll need to know.**_

_**-SH**_

Then Lestrade texted back.

_**Okay then. How did you know about the man's death?**_

Not too difficult. They only needed to observe. Sherlock suddenly felt like a bit of insulting, so sent this:

_**I'd advise firing the man who I believe is called 'Anderson', by the way.**_

_**-S**_

And the funny thing was Anderson actually was an idiot.

_**Why?**_

Why? _Why_?

_**He's an idiot. **_

_**-S**_

But then Lestrade gave Sherlock something to think about.

_**Who are you?**_

Of course, Sherlock knew who he was, but whether or not Sherlock should tell Lestrade that he didn't know.

Time to test his intelligence.

_**I'll leave you to your deductions, Inspector Lestrade.**_

_**-S**_

Sherlock sent the messages, and in the time he wrote it one of the Irregulars was halfway in a fight with the man who had asked Sherlock about the phone. But then something odd happened.

Sherlock felt something big, solid and painful ram into his head, forcing is against the brick wall. Then his head felt heavier than a bus, a bus with throbbing pain in it's head. And to top it off, something was in his left eye.

Beep. Beep. Beep

What was that _noise_?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sherlock was somewhere… warm. Wrapped up. Sherlock opened his eyes. White. Sherlock closed them again. And beeping. There was a word for it. Began with an H…

Sherlock tried to ask where he was, but all that came out was a groan. He tried to move and all he did was stir up a hidden pain, like a tiger ready to pounce.

_Hospital_!

He was in _hospital_!

Then a voice. Not one he recognised.

'S'okay, dear. Just relax.'

So that's what Sherlock did. The pain died down.

'You took quite a battering!'

Then suddenly a big noise and a voice to match it.

'Where. Is. My. Brother.' The voice was full of anger, worry and fear.

It wasn't a question. It was a command.

Sherlock wondered who the man's brother was. Then his brain decided that that was the time to work.

He was the mans' brother.

_Mycroft_!

Sherlock opened his eyes again, and blinked till his eyes weren't blurry anymore. Mycroft thundered down into his ward, and once he got to Sherlock he relaxed and then began a full body check on Sherlock.

'No broken bones… wait, broken ribs… punctured lung… and concussion.' Mycroft then considered. 'How are you feeling, brother?'

'Like I was hit by a car.' The words where slow and dragged out, but Sherlock managed. Mycroft smiled in a 'diddums' kind of way.

'Well, that's an accurate description of what happened.'

Sherlock pushed himself up again, looking wide eyes at his brother.

'I was hit by a car? _Again_?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother, but before he could reply the nurse came back into the ward.

'Excuse me, sir, but I think you should come with me.' This was directed at Mycroft. Sherlock looked questioningly at Mycroft but Mycroft just shrugged.

Mycroft and the nurse left the ward, leaving Sherlock.

_**Sherlock ran. He was on the pavement. Only a few more minuets and he would be at his house, but he was running out of breath. **_

'_**Run, Sherly, run Sherly run run run**_

_**Before we have some fun fun fun**_

_**We won't get by**_

_**Without our Sherlock pie**_

_**So run run run run!'**_

_**Sherlock didn't need telling twice. **_

_**He ran down the hill, coming to the crossroads just before his house. He was halfway through the road when something hard, cold and solid hit his thigh and knocked him off his feet.**_

_**Everything was numb and he could feel the blood pumping around his body. **_

_**Just before he lost consciousness, he felt blood pooling around his head.**_

_**Beep.**_

_**Beep.**_

_**Beep**_

Greg didn't even know the man's name. Or his age, or even where he lived. But that didn't stop him pulling into the hospital to check up on 'S'. He pulled into the car park, and parked his car. The Inspector didn't really like hospitals, all clean and white and that _smell_. There was already someone at the receptionist when he got in. A smartly dressed man with an umbrella in his left hand.

'But there must have been a Sherlock Holmes!'

'I'm sorry sir, but only one person has been handed in with the injuries you described in the last 48 hours!' The receptionist had an annoying, high-pitched voice.

'Who has been handed in?'

'Patient confiden….' She never finished.

'Miss, I have the power to have you fired, framed for murder and maybe even sent to America to be given a death sentence. And you know what, I could do it all in one text.'

The receptionist gulped. Rather dramatically.

'Err… a Gregory Lestrade has been handed in.'

Lestrade had to admit, 'S' was _good_.

'Err, sorry, but Mr…?' Lestrade asked to the other man

'Holmes.'

'Ah, well, Mr Holmes, I'm Gregory Lestrade. And, can I ask, does Sherlock Holmes wear a long, black coat?'

Mr Holmes considered.

'Yes, he does wear that ridiculous coat of his.'

'Did you know he's been stalking crime scenes?'

'Better than the alternate.'

Lestrade was about to ask what that was, but the receptionist asked if they wanted to see 'Greg'.

They agreed and went into the ward. Lestrade decided to be the polite one and ask if Mr Holmes wanted coffee as Mr Holmes seemed to preoccupied with his… Brother? Probably. When Lestrade had got the coffee, he made his way into the ward the receptionist had told them he was in. There where a few patients. One stood out, though. Pale face, prominent cheekbones and dark, curly hair. Lestrade made his way to the bed, coffee in hand. There was a chair next to the bed, Lestrade sat down.

'Mr Holmes.'

'Lestrade.'

That was about a greeting. The man looked young, thirties maybe, he also looked bored, though the world just wasn't living up to his expectations.

'You stole my ID, then.'

'Yes.' Lestrade could tell this man wasn't one for talking.

'Okay. Going to tell me why?'

The man considered.

'No.'

The man considered again.

'Call me Sherlock, please.'

'Okay.'

The man with the umbrella came back in. His whole face just said _disappointment_. Nothing else.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

Mycroft followed the nurse into a small, private room just over the other side of the ward. She led him in, and closed the door. There was a sofa on either side of the room. Mycroft took one, the nurse the other.

'Mr Holmes. As I'm sure you're aware, Greg's-'

'That's not his name!' Mycroft laughed, despite whatever the nurse was about to tell him. 'He's called Sherlock Holmes. The ID you found, it's stolen.'

The nurse took in this information.

'Well, regardless of his name, I'm sure you know his injuries aren't too good. When he was just brought in, we took blood samples, to be tested. The results came up a little funny, so we did a proper scan and full check on the blood. We found traces of cocaine in his blood.'

Mycroft, of course, knew this was probably the case. Sherlock's refusal to accept any help meant that this drug abuse had probably been going on for months now.

'We can't let him go home by himself.'

But at that Mycroft's heart sunk. There was no way Sherlock would go home with him, not by choice anyway. And if Mycroft forced him to come, then he's just climb out of a window. Or something.

'I can talk to him about this.' Mycroft couldn't think of anything else to say. The nurse led him out of the room and back to Sherlock's bed.

-=|AUTHERS NOTE|=-


	5. Chapter 5

'Sherlock.'

'Brother.'

'Are you going to make a deduction on what they found in your lovely blood?'

Sherlock tensed.

'I thought as much. Anyway, the nurse over there said you're going to have to come home with one of us.'

Sherlock sighed, stretched out and tensed again.

'I'm not going home with you, dear _brother_.'

After about ten minuets of this happening, more or less, Lestrade suddenly decided that it was his time to step in.

'He could come home with me.'

They both stared at him.

'He could sleep on the sofa,' Lestrade continued, 'I could look after him.'

They both stared at him. But then Mycroft nodded, slowly.

'That sounds adequate.'

Sherlock sighed in relief.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

'Well, this is my set of flats.' Lestrade ventured out for a conversation.

'I've been here before.'

Lestrade took this in.

'You've been inside my flat?'

'Only the kitchen and living room.'

'Right.'

They walked up the stairs to Lestrades flat.

'Well, I guess you know where everything is, pretty much.'

'Yes.'

'It's near dinner-time. What do you want?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'You must be! The last time you ate was about 5 hours ago.'

'I said I'm not hungry!'

'Well, I'll make you some pasta and you can pick at that if you want.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade made his way into the kitchen; Sherlock plonked himself down on the sofa, putting his feet up. No manners. That's one more thing learnt about this strange man. Once the pasta had cooked, Lestrade called Sherlock through to get his pasta. When Sherlock didn't move Lestrade brought it through to him, moving case files off the coffee table.

'Here. Eat this.' They ate in silence, once Lestrade had finished (Sherlock had only poked the food) he needed to go out the filling station just round the corner to get milk. When he got back, Sherlock's bowl of pasta was practically licked clean. But Sherlock was no-where to be found.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade called out to the empty spaces. He checked round all the rooms, panic starting to bubble up from his gut. He checked the bathroom, but he found nothing, apart from the boiler-room door was ajar. When he opened it, he found Sherlock curled up, asleep, next to the boiler.

'Sherlock, why are you in here?'

**_The laughing. Does it ever stop? There was nowhere where Sherlock could just _be _without someone being there, asking why he was reading medical journals, or taunting him about his lack of friends, these where only some of the jibes streamlined to Sherlock. He roamed the school, trying to find somewhere, anywhere where he could spend his lunch hour in peace. But one day he was wandering the corridors of the school alone, lost in his own world. He noticed a heat to his left side. He frowned, and before he had even turned his head he had narrowed this heat down to the boiler room, supplying the school with hot water. The door was ajar, projecting the heat across the corridor. Sherlock glanced left and right, slowly pulling the door open. Inside was the cleaner, a semi-balm 50 year old in a blue t-shirt and blue trousers._**

_**Wife just left him (Unshaven, messy, shirt cuffs are frayed). Daughter (Crease lines on forehead, speck of pink nail varnish on boots). **_

'_**Oy! What are you doing?'**_

'_**I need somewhere to read.'**_

'_**This isn't the library.'**_

'_**I noticed.'**_

_**The man stared at Sherlock. **_

'_**So what's your name?'**_

'_**Sherlock. What's yours?'**_

'_**Craig.'**_

'_**So can I read here?'**_

'_**I suppose.' **_

_**Sherlock sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, taking in the room. There where two circular tanks, next to each other with a maze of pipes leading up and through the walls. The room was in semi-darkness, with a dim bare light bulb lighting up the room.**_

_**Sherlock continued to come to the damp room each lunchtime. Craig always gave him tea, and sometimes they talked. It was a nice break and Sherlock began to learn little things about him. Craig liked milk in his tea, his daughter was called Sophie, his wife was called Megan, he had a cat (Sherlock had actually deduced this) called Artemis, he had worked in the local supermarket (before it shut down), he worked with wood in his spare time, and many other little things. **_

'_**But I don't know anything about you.'**_

'_**What? You know my name is Sherlock, and I like to read.'**_

'_**Yes, but, okay. Do you have any siblings?'**_

'_**A brother, Mycroft. He's going to uni next year, though.'**_

'_**Does he know which one?'**_

'_**He wants Oxford.'**_

'_**Do you think he will be accepted?'**_

'_**I guess.'**_

'_**Do you have any hobbies?'**_

'_**Err… well, it's not really a hobby…'**_

'_**Tell me!'**_

'_**I like to deduce stuff. Like a detector.' **_

'_**Well I know a detector who might be able to help you into a career.'**_

_**And so Sherlock met DI Risumhomo, an Italian detective with a wicked humour. **_

'What?'

'Sherlock, why are you in the boiler room?'

'No reason!' Sherlock yelled a little too loudly, leaping out of the room with some gusto.

'Sherlock, are you okay'?

'What? Yes. Yes. Why wouldn't I be? I'm fine.' And as he said it he collapsed on the floor, narrowly missing the shower.

'_Sher_lock!'

Lestrade dragged the man into the living room, hauling him onto the sofa.

''M fine…' Mumbled Sherlock.

'No, Sherlock, you get some sleep. It's getting late anyway. When did you last sleep?'

'Saturday…' His voice was slurred. It was probably killing him to stay awake.

'Sherlock! It's Friday! Right, well, I'll be in my room if you need me.'

'Why would I need you?'

'In case you need something?' Sherlock was asleep before he could even reply.

-=|AUTHERS NOTE|=-

Sorry it's short. Next one will be normal. Probably.


End file.
